


mary jane

by soulofme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Getting Together, Horny Teenagers, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Some angst, james is an ass lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 13:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16995954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: He doesn’t know why people like Keith—strong and passionate and fucking wonderful—kiss people like him.





	mary jane

**Author's Note:**

> This is how I’m coping with s8 lololol

Shiro’s seventeen the first time he smokes weed.

Nadia from third period calls it “mary jane” and he doesn’t get why, just keeps thinking about all the Spiderman comics his brother had tried to get him to read last summer.

The thing about Shiro is that he’s not nearly as great as the rest of the population thinks he is. He’s got shitty vision, so bad that he wore glasses with lenses thicker than a damn textbook until his grandmother finally let him get contacts freshman year. He’d hit puberty sooner than his friends, and so it’s why he’s tall and broad and feels a bit like a puppy with huge paws. He's awkward and shy and has maybe one friend total (or had, more accurately, seeing how Matt had moved right before school started).

But Nadia likes him, strangely, and she introduces him to the rest of her friends. James, Ryan, Ina.

And _Keith_.

Keith, who’s smoking weed with the rest of them even though he’s on the track team, who’s in Shiro’s trig class and ignores him, even when Shiro tells him _good morning_.

Keith, who Shiro’s had a crush on since the dawn of time.

He swallows hard, looks at the blunt Nadia waves beneath his nose.

“It’s not gonna bite,” she says, laughing loud and loose, and it’s then that Shiro catches Keith’s eye.

He reaches for the blunt, inhales too slow and exhales too quick. He gets into a nasty coughing fit that doesn’t stop until he’s forced to go to the kitchen and chug half a glass of water.

He jumps when Keith sidles up beside him.

“First time?” he asks coyly.

“No,” Shiro says, cheeks flushing with the lie.

Keith’s smile is full of teeth.

He says, “You’ll get used to it.”

And then he’s gone, and Shiro’s sagging against the counter, and he can’t fucking _breathe_.

 

 

 

 

Nadia needles him with her elbow pressed in the spaces between his ribs the next time she sees him, her eyes bright with mischief.

“You like him,” she says, and he almost asks _who_ before she barrels on with, “ _you like Keith_.”

It’s juvenile, and Shiro tells her that, crisply and promptly, and Nadia’s laugh is full-bodied and obnoxious.

“You didn’t hear this from me,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially and cupping a hand over her mouth. Even so, she doesn’t lower her voice. “But I think he likes you too.”

Her breath smells like the watermelon vodka someone had brought. Across the room, hidden beneath the thudding bass of the generic song that pumps through Nadia’s speakers, Shiro thinks he hears someone laugh.

It sounds suspiciously like Keith.

 

 

 

 

His grandmother wrinkles her nose when he gets home. He wonders if he really smells that bad. She says:

“Where were you?”

And Takashi Shirogane, certified good boy, never been grounded, lies only when strictly necessary says:

“Library.”

 

 

 

He smokes again the next time Nadia invites him to a party. It’s not at her house. They don’t know whose house it is, really, but Nadia had heard about it through the grapevine. Shiro asks her about what grapevine that is, exactly, because he _never_ hears about these little get-togethers.

“Shiro, Shiro, Shiro,” Nadia says, tsking and shaking her head. “Stop making me feel like I’m corrupting you. And don't call it a  _get-together_ , you nerd.”

His jaw drops at that and he’s ready to retort, to say something like _what the hell, Nadia,_ but he doesn’t get the chance.

Because he sees Keith, and his ability to think suddenly ceases. He has his arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back against the wall and eyes closed.

Shiro swallows hard and pushes through people until he’s close enough.

“Hey,” he says, shouting to be heard over the music, and Keith’s eyes snap open.

“Hey,” he echoes, leaning forward a bit. He smirks. “We didn’t scare you away?”

“Nadia brought me,” he explains, unnecessarily, and wants to kick himself for it instantly.

“C’mon,” Keith says, ignoring that, and grabbing him around the wrist. “Dance with me.”

He doesn’t dance, something he says right as Keith tosses his head back and laughs. He gets in close, close enough that Shiro can count each and every eyelash of his if he was so inclined, and grabs Shiro’s hands and places them onto his hips.

“I can hear you thinking,” Keith says teasingly, swaying them at a pace much slower than the song blaring through the house.

“What?” Shiro asks, sounding like a goddamn _idiot_ when he adds, “Really?”

“You’re cute,” Keith declares, lips curling up into a grin, and Shiro feels sweaty all over.

Keith gets tired of dancing after a while, and he leads them upstairs, where he rolls a blunt the size of pinky for them to share. He lounges out across the bed while Shiro sits stiffly on the very edge, feeling weird as hell about being in some random bedroom.

Keith shifts, and when he does his shirt slips up and bares his flat stomach to Shiro’s greedy gaze. Keith preens under the attention, and Shiro’s unprepared for the way he plops himself in his lap.

Keith links his arms around Shiro’s neck and smiles.

“A little birdie named Nadia said you like me.”

“I—did she?” Shiro manages, proud of how he only stammers once.

“Do you?” Keith asks, sliding one hand along his shoulder and down his back.

“Maybe,” Shiro manages, mind racing, and Keith’s eyes flash dangerously.

He doesn’t know why people like Keith—strong and passionate and fucking _wonderful_ —kiss people like him.

 

 

 

 

Things escalate after that.

After a while, he doesn’t need Nadia to invite him out anymore. Keith does that all on his own. He shows up at his house once, on a cherry red motorbike, and Shiro has to bite out an excuse about a study group before his grandmother can go outside and talk to Keith herself.

“You’re crazy,” Shiro shouts, wind lashing against his cheeks, helmet heavy on his head. Keith takes a sharp turn left and Shiro digs his fingers into his sides.

“You like it,” he says, dismounting and tossing his helmet aside.

He blows Shiro on the side of the road. When he’s done, and Shiro’s zipping himself up and trying to remember how to breathe again, his lips are as red as his bike.

 

 

 

 

There’s not a label for this, whatever it may be.

Nadia picks up on it first, whistling widly when Keith saunters through the door with Shiro at his heels. James sneers at him, surprisingly, rolling his eyes when Keith plops down beside him and snuggles against his side.

“You’re gonna get tired of him,” James says, shooting Shiro a cutting look that has him shriveling up beside Nadia. “He’s too clean for you.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Keith says, patting his cheek patronizingly.

Shiro gets whiplash by how quickly Keith is up and by his side, yanking him away to some dark corner of the house. James’s words stick in his head, even when Keith pushes him to the ground and straddles him, grinding against him until he comes in his pants with a bitten off groan.

 

 

 

 

They’re standing on a roof, watching the grey clouds crawl across the sky, and Keith’s leaning over the railing so far that Shiro keeps getting this vision of him falling and plummeting to a certain death.

Keith says, “What’s it like, being good?”

And Shiro gets this sour taste on the back of his tongue, gets James’s smug face in the front of his mind.

“Sucks, really.”

Keith snickers and stands up, walks over and hooks his fingers into Shiro’s belt loops. He tastes like cherries, Shiro realizes distantly.

“Fuck it,” he murmurs against Shiro’s mouth, sharp little teeth nipping playfully. “Be bad.”

 

 

 

 

Ryou brings it up at dinner one night, lazily stabbing at a green bean as he says:

“Hey, Takashi, where’d you go last night?”

His world screeches to a stop at the exact moment their grandmother walks into the room with a steaming pot of soup.

“What?” she asks, turning interested eyes towards Shiro, but beneath that he can sense the underlying promise of punishment.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” he says slowly.

Ryou shrugs, then, popping the green bean into his mouth.

“Hm. Must’ve been dreaming, then,” he says, casually, even when he smirks evilly.

“What the hell was that?” Shiro asks Ryou later, gesticulating wildly, panic coursing in his veins.

“That, dear brother, was revenge,” Ryou says, punching him hard on the arm. “When the hell did you start going out and acting all cool and shit? And why are you doing it without me?”

When Shiro finds a box of unopened condoms and sticky note reminding him to be safe on his bed that night, he screams and goes straight to Ryou’s room to punch him in the throat.

Or, maybe, just yell.

 

 

 

 

“He’s fucking with you, y’know.”

James is leaning against his locker. Shiro starts and glances both ways down the crowded hallway.

“What?”

“Keith,” James clarifies, with an eyeroll that’s probably meant to make Shiro feel like an idiot. Mission accomplished, if that’s the case. “He doesn’t give a shit about people.”

“It’s not like that,” Shiro says, because he’s sure it’s _not_.

“Yeah, okay,” James says, like he’s speaking from experience or something. “Keep telling yourself that.”

 

 

 

 

Shiro loses his virginity on his “little boy bed”, as Keith calls it with a laugh and a pinch to his cheeks. He doesn’t remember it, not really, just remembers how Keith had gotten on top of him and rode him hard enough to make the bed creak. When he came, he’d slipped off Shiro’s dick, yanked the condom off, and blew him until Shiro forgot his own name.

When he comes to, an hour or so later, Keith’s gone.

 

 

 

 

“Can I borrow a pen?”

Keith’s not looking at him, eyes glued to his trig textbook. He looks up when Shiro doesn’t answer, raising a brow.

Shiro forks over the pen but feels like he just gave up much more than that.

 

 

 

 

“Why do you do this?”

Keith lifts his head from where it’s hanging off the edge of Shiro’s bed. He smells like alcohol this time, like the cheap beer he had stashed in his bag when he came by.

His grandmother’s working the late shift, and Ryou’s at a friend’s house. It’s just him and Keith, and yet Shiro feels incredibly alone.

“Why do people do anything?” Keith says, and it’s not an answer, not really, but Shiro thinks he almost understands him.

 

 

 

 

 

Nadia’s slurping loudly at a milkshake, eyeing Shiro over the rim of her glasses. She looks concerned, but Shiro ignores her and pretends to be fascinated by the extensive McDonald’s menu.

“You should stop,” she says, “before someone gets hurt.”

She’s talking about Keith. Everyone usually is.

Shiro doesn’t listen.

 

 

 

 

“What do you want from me?”

Keith’s on top of him again, hands pressing against his stomach, legs on either side of Shiro’s hips. It would’ve been a good question, one that he’d be able to answer, if he wasn’t currently balls-deep inside of Keith.

“What?” he asks, and all the energy seems to drain from his veins.

Keith rolls his eyes and grinds his hips in a harsh, hard circle. Shiro tries not to whine at the feel of it.

“Most people want something from me,” he says.

“I don’t,” Shiro says.

Keith shakes his head.

“Liar,” he declares, diving in for a kiss.

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t see Keith for a while.

Shiro tells himself it doesn’t bother him. Keith doesn’t owe him anything. He doesn’t _want_ anything from Keith.

But that doesn’t stop him from searching the halls for him, or glancing at him in trig, mentally urging him to just _look at him_.

Keith never does.

 

 

 

 

“See?” James taunts, looking way too smug, being as high as he is. “Tired of you. Just like I fuckin’ said. Now he’s gonna go whore himself off to someone else. You’re old news, Shirogane.”

And Shiro doesn’t know what happens, doesn’t know what kind of demonic force possesses him, but he’s listening to James one second and punching the shit out of him the next.

He only stops when Ryan drags him off, shoves him outside and tells him to cool down. That’s how Nadia finds him, her eyes wide.

“What the hell?” she asks.

“Fuck it,” Shiro murmurs, hearing Keith’s voice in his head when he does, and he shrugs when Nadia’s eyebrows crinkle together. “Decided to be bad.”

 

 

 

 

“You punched James.”

It’s not a question. Shiro doesn’t know why Keith’s here, sitting across from him in the library. Someone shushes him angrily, but Keith shoots them a nasty glare and powers on.

“Right?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, almost sinking down into his seat. “I did.”

“Why?”

“He was talking about you.”

Keith’s expression darkens before he shakes his head and grabs Shiro by the collar of his hoodie.

“You crazy bastard,” he mutters, almost affectionately, and Shiro wonders if he should be smiling this much.

 

 

 

 

The next time they’re at a party together, Keith’s practically pinned to his side. He’s quiet, arms crossed over his chest and foot tapping impatiently, and Shiro only gets it when James comes through the door and Keith kisses him hard enough to hurt. There’s a lot of tongue and teeth and he thinks he can feel Keith grind against his thigh.

Keith pulls away with a wet _smack_ and shoots a look over his shoulder. James stands behind them with an arched brow, and Keith smiles sweetly at him.

“Oh, hey. When’d you get here?”

“Too late, apparently,” James says dryly.

Afterwards, when Keith pushes him into an empty bedroom and makes them both drop onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs, Shiro stops kissing him long enough to say:

“I think I love you.”

And Keith says:

“I think I love you too."


End file.
